


Sipping on Something Sweet

by flares



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Anxiety, First Dance, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Marriage, aha please be kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 22:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4497873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flares/pseuds/flares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s ridiculous how careful he is, actually, and Zayn wants to laugh, if only because the alternative would be to cry. Maybe thinking he might break isn’t too far-fetched of a belief.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sipping on Something Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note that this is set about 5 years in the future, ish. It's my first time actually posting anything I've written, and it hasn't been beta read or looked over by anyone besides myself (multiple times, since I'm too anxious to ask anyone else to do it). All mistakes are my own. Also, it's 4:30 AM so please be gentle.
> 
> Title from Tranquilize by The Killers, which has nothing to do with the fic.

“You can’t have lies in a relationship, even stupid ones! That’s not how forever _works_ , Zayn,” Harry tries to reason. He’s too dramatic for the hour of the morning, in Zayn’s opinion.

“Why did you drag me here? It’s not something that big. ‘M not hiding an extra limb,” Zayn says, huffing and trying to scoot away from Harry’s grabby hands. It’s difficult. The buckle of his seat belt is digging into his hip.

“It wouldn’t have been something big if you had told him sooner,” Harry says, reaching over to unbuckle him. “Now, you have to fix it. So it’s not even a lie anymore!”

Zayn’s already shaking his head, mumbling ' _no_ 's under his breath, and he can hear their driver sigh for what must be the fiftieth time. They’ve been sitting in this parking lot for a solid ten minutes.

“You’re acting like a child,” the driver points out.

“Get out of the damn car before some pap finds out you two are here.” Paul sighs, turning around in his seat to look at the two. “Or I’ll take you out myself, Zayn.”

And, well. He put up a fight at least. Zayn’s not happy about it, but nonetheless Zayn gets out of the vehicle, scowling at Harry’s wide, triumphant smile. Harry still has to grip tightly onto his wrist and yank Zayn along behind him to get the boy to follow, but Zayn begrudgingly notes that Harry still looks as if he’s won the lottery.

They finally enter the studio, Zayn trailing a few feet behind, and are immediately greeted by a man wearing a wide grin and a sharp suit. Zayn tries to stop his cheeks from burning because he’s wearing _sweats_ while Harry is wearing a button up that is _actually_ buttoned up and damn it, is he severely underdressed? He would have at least tried to dress nicer if Harry had told him to.

“Harry!” The man rushes forward, gushing over the boy and marvelling on how much he’s grown. (Harry said he’d pulled a favour.)

“All right, all right,” Harry chuckles, batting his pinching fingers away and gesturing over to Zayn. “That’s Zaynie,” – Zayn sends him a glare – “And don’t worry. He’s not as hopeless as he looks.”

Zayn feels his face burning, embarrassment and annoyance probably managing to turn his cheeks red. He doesn’t blush easily, and it’s horrifying when someone notices and points it out. Harry does, and he seems delighted, reaches out to pinch one with quick fingers, which Zayn doesn’t dodge in time.

“Well,” the stranger claps his hands together loudly, the sound bouncing and echoing off the mirrors of the empty studio. “We’ll see about that. There seems to be potential.”

Okay. That sounds like utter bullshit to Zayn, because how could he know anything about Zayn’s potential or lack thereof, really? But Harry smiles wide at that and nudges him in the ribs with his sharp elbow. “See? Even a stranger believes in you. Who knows, maybe you’ll like it!”

* * *

Zayn hates it.

His feet just won’t cooperate with what his brain is telling him and he keeps fucking _tripping_ and kicking Robert in the shins even though they’ve been at this for an hour and a half already. Zayn can’t get his feet movements right unless he looks at his feet and fuck if that’s not the _complete opposite_ of romantic. He thinks he should be better at this, considering he’s a performer, for fuck’s sake. It’s like he’s back on the X-Factor again, small in more ways than one, quiet and nervous. Zayn remembers standing backstage and feeling the overwhelming desire to just quit, despite how much he wanted it and despite his progress thus far. The want to quit isn’t as strong now as it was then, but his nerves are significantly worse.

The reason he’s going through with the lessons now, though, makes the suffering worth it a million times over, Zayn reminds himself. He’s not perfect, and his dancing never will be, but he should at least try to get as close as he can for the occasion.

After he kicks Robert for the fifth time in the first two minutes of the song, he sighs, backing away from Zayn and rubbing a hand along his shin before moving to stop the music.

“Sorry,” Zayn says again, scrubbing his hand across the stubble on his jaw. He hopes he remembers to shave it off later, once this hell is over and Harry calls Paul – since he actually confiscated Zayn’s phone, “ _for your own good, Zayn!_ ” – to take them home. Zayn tends to nick himself a few times when he gets too anxious, and tomorrow would _really_ be a bad time to have spots on his face. “Like, I’m just really sorry.”

Robert waves his apologies off with his hand, says, “How about a break?” Zayn breathes out heavily, trying to shove down the disappointment he feels in himself when he nods.

He trudges over to Harry, where he’s lying on his back on the floor with his phone held above his head. There’s music coming from the speakers, probably from the build-a-city game that he’s been obsessed with. He’s been on it non-stop for the past two weeks, getting excited when his phone moos, which apparently means his milk is ready to collect, and being massively unhelpful to Zayn, who has been stressing and panicking and more or less having a meltdown.

“Fucking help me, you dick,” Zayn says, nudging Harry’s shoulder with the toe of his shoe. “Shouldn’t you be good at this? You were always the romantic one, or at least more romantic than Lou or Niall or me, whatever. You should definitely be helping me.”

Harry startles, looking up through his curls to Zayn just as his fingers twitch, dropping his phone smack on his face. It makes him release this startled, slightly pained noise in the back of his throat. Zayn feels a little better.

“Help with what? You’re doing great,” Harry says, sitting up and rubbing at his nose. _Good,_ Zayn thinks. “You just need to watch your feet without, you know, _watching_ your feet. Also, you sort of look like you’ve got a massive stick up your arse. So, you should work on that as well, probably.”

“’M hopeless,” Zayn mumbles, plopping on the floor and resting his chin on his knees. “I should have just told him.”

Harry sighs, slinging an arm around Zayn’s shoulders and giving him a squeeze. “You should have. Maybe it would be easier if you were dancing with him instead of some guy you don’t even know, or even _like_ for that matter. Things would be different if you were in love with the one you were dancing with, I’d think.” Harry pauses, lets out a soft hum. “But you can’t change time. We’re here now, at the very least. Even if I did have to drag you into the building, you’re still here, and you’re still _trying_.”

They sit in silence for a while, Zayn watching as Robert leaves to get them more water. There’s guilt tugging at his chest, and he tries not to mope, really, but he can’t help it. He really did wait until the last minute, and he wouldn’t have even gotten here if he hadn’t gotten piss drunk the night before, slurring his confession to Harry while pouting miserably on a barstool. Zayn would have kept his mouth shut otherwise, had a breakdown five minutes before the event in a closet or bathroom somewhere. Anywhere that had a door that closed and locked.

What exactly he’d do after that, Zayn’s not so sure.

“You know he won’t care, right?” Harry says, softly now, nudging Zayn’s head with his knuckles until he gives in and rests his cheek on Harry’s shoulder.

“I know. ‘S just embarrassing,” Zayn mumbles into Harry’s collarbone. “Don’t want- Pictures, videos,” He pauses to take a breath. “Jus’ want it to be perfect, y’know? I want everything to be perfect for us. For him, really.”

The arm around his back pulls tighter before letting go. “It will be. You could literally break his leg and he’d probably laugh about it.”

“Doubtful.”

“He’ll still love you, Zayn,” Harry says, all serious. It startles a laugh out of Zayn. It’s a choked-sounding, _awful_ excuse for a laugh, but it’s a laugh, nonetheless. “Sure, this was a lie. A tiny lie that ended up turning into a shitty situation, due to circumstances, but it’s not catastrophic. He’ll still trust you. You love each other. A few bruised shins isn’t going to lessen that.”

And it’s so stupid, how quickly Zayn’s eyes start to sting at that. He chokes out a laugh and says, a little watery, “Yeah, I know. I’m stupid. This is stupid. Louis would never let it go. Probably videotape the entire thing and link to it on twitter. _Millions_ would see-”

“Hey,” Harry interrupts him, a serious tone to his voice this time. “They don’t matter, yeah? Not the paps, not Louis, not even fans right now matter in the long run. What _especially_ don’t matter are your admittedly sub-par dancing skills.” He smacks his hand against Zayn’s knee before standing. His phone makes a noise like a cash register, and Harry’s eyes light up as he taps around on the screen, making pleased humming noises in the back of his throat. He looks like an idiot.

After a moment, Harry looks down at Zayn again, raising an eyebrow and jerking his chin towards the door. “You coming, or?”

“Yea, yea,” Zayn nods, taking the hand Harry holds out for him. “Can we go get shitfaced now?”

Harry smiles, Cheshire Cat-like and borderline painful to look at. “Of course, we can. Every second spent not drinking is a second wasted, at this point.”

* * *

Zayn remembers to shave his face and blessedly doesn’t end up cutting himself. When they’re all drunk and flailing, Louis makes a joke about how Zayn looks when he’s dancing. “ _It’s like you’re a noodle come to life, but with great hair.”_ It’s in passing, but still Zayn vomits and wallows in the bathroom for a half hour, breathes a sigh of relief when the lads all decide to kick him out after that. He’s never been more thankful that Niall called for the parties to be one after the other, Niall’s being later that night so Zayn can sleep an extra few hours.

Zayn’s so in love, is the thing, that even after that day’s horrible events, he still snuggles into the duvet with a smile on his face. As he falls asleep, squashed against the wall so that another body can slip in beside him later, Zayn decides that things could be a hundred times worse and everything would still be worth it.

* * *

The day flies by so fast, and when Zayn thinks about it he can only remember the panicked feeling clawing at his throat blurred in with some person he’s met twice, _maybe_ , fussing over his hair. Everything was chaos, Zayn could tell by the way Liam was tugging at his hair and clipping his words at the ends as he barked out orders. He insisted Zayn shouldn’t worry, but the boys can all read Liam like the backs of their hands, and Zayn can tell he’s worrying as if a statement of the fact had been tattooed across his forehead.

Eventually, though, Liam comes into his dressing room for the last time and his eyebrows aren’t doing _that thing_. Zayn feels a weight lift off his chest.

“Come on then, Mr. Malik,” Liam says, opening the door wide and gesturing exaggeratedly with his arm.

“Not for long!” And that’s Harry he hears, his singsong voice drifting in from outside the doorway. “You are hyphening, right? I’m pretty sure you’re going with the hyphen.”

Immediately after Zayn enters the hallway he hears sobbing. “Oh, my baby,” Trisha gushes, rushing up to him to take his face in her hands. She tugs him down to press kisses to his cheeks and manages to get her fingers tangled in his hair. “You look so handsome. My handsome, _handsome_ boy.”

“Mum,” Zayn chuckles, smiling wide and tugging her hands away from his head softly. “Don’t mess up my hair. It took hours, and Liam might explode if I take any longer getting ready.”

She scoffs, playfully smacking his arm. “Can’t even let your own mother get too close to you on your special day, can you? Glad to be rid of you officially, then!” Her eyes look wet though, so Zayn tucks his chin over her shoulder and pulls her in for a hug. It’s comforting, and Zayn feels the tension in his shoulders lessen slightly.

Somewhere behind them, Yaser clears his throat. Tricia doesn't loosen her grip on him, though, and Zayn laughs when he resorts to wrapping his arms around them both. Zayn’s not really that worried about his hair, on second thought.

“Sorry to rush this tender moment but we’ve got people waiting.” Zayn nods at Harry from over his father’s arm, finally pulling back from them and then linking their arms together, one on either side of Zayn.

The, _“Just don’t trip,”_ that Louis whispers jokingly to him a few seconds later causes Zayn’s stomach to tighten up again. He’s lucky Zayn’s arms are linked with those of his parents, honestly. As if Zayn needed anything else to worry about.

* * *

It’s not until he rounds the corner that it all really sinks in for Zayn. All this planning, organizing and ordering did their part in making it real, but it only really hits him in this moment its happening. _They’re actually doing this_. Zayn walks with his arms linked with his parents’, with his best mates at the end of the isle dressed in fancy suits, and nothing feels real. Family and friends and some people he can’t say he’s seen more than once are gathered with them, paps hovering on the outside. Zayn can see them peeking in the windows and he minds, of course, but he reminds himself that in the end, it doesn’t matter. In the grand scheme of things, at least, it doesn’t. Harry was right this time.

The only thing that matters right now to Zayn is Niall.

He looks amazing, as per usual, but now Zayn’s breath catches in his throat. Niall’s hair is freshly touched up, shining gold in the light streaming in from the windows. He’s already smiling wide, making Zayn’s own smile grow even wider, and Zayn can see the cameras flashing from the corners of his eyes. Niall seems like he’s holding back from running towards him, and Louis picks up on it as well, giving the blond a fond but sharp smack on the back of his head. Zayn can see Niall mouth form the words, _ouch, you prick_ , even from a distance.

_Don’t trip, don’t trip._

Soon enough, though, Zayn reaches the altar and Yaser hands him over to Niall. He grips his hands carefully, as if Zayn’s about to break. It’s _ridiculous_ how careful he is, actually, and Zayn wants to laugh, if only because the alternative would be to cry. Maybe thinking Zayn might break isn’t too far-fetched of a belief, because he sure feels it. Zayn’s so overwhelmed with the love coming off of Niall that his heart feels too big for his chest. Zayn may burst with love for Niall. What a way to go, that would be.

Zayn holds Niall’s hands in his, blinks back tears in his eyes when Niall rubs his thumbs softly along Zayn’s knuckles. He doesn’t hear what the minister is saying over the blood pounding in his ears, can only look into Niall’s eyes.

Everything passes by in a blink: Zayn stumbles through his vows as Niall smiles fondly at him; Niall says his own vows through a wide smile and with warmth in his eyes; their mothers cry in the crowd behind them as paps hover in the garden outside. They slip rings onto each other’s fingers, and Niall brushes his lips across his knuckles quickly afterwards.

“ _I do_ ,” can’t tumble from Zayn’s lips fast enough, and before he knows it he’s kissing Niall and everyone is clapping and throwing petals. Their teeth knock together because they can’t seem to wipe the smiles off of their faces.

“Mr. Horan-Malik,” Niall says once they pull back. He extends his hand out to Zayn with a grin bright enough to rival the sun. There’s a rose petal in his hair and he’s so beautiful. “Shall we?”

* * *

Zayn is going to be sick.

Everyone has their phones out, and Zayn knows this will end up in _The Sun_ and every other big website, blog and newspaper out there. Of course, he’s known this since the press found out about their engagement, but that knowledge never actually prepared him for this. The flashes are blinding because apparently not even security could keep out everyone. They were outside in the windows and in doorways with their massive, fancy, expensive lenses that must be powerful enough to see the indents in his lips from where he’s been biting them.

 _But_.

But the music is starting, Niall is there looking stunning and flawless, and Zayn just loves him too much to _literally break his leg_ in their first dance as husbands. Zayn doesn’t want to accidentally injure Niall. He already has that one funny toe and his bad knee to look out for without Zayn fucking up and adding another _bad_ or _funny_ body part to the list.

He also, however, loves Niall too much to not dance with him.

Oh, _God_.

Zayn takes a step forward, grabs a hold of Niall's hand and can’t hold back the smile that blooms on his face. Niall beams at him and tugs Zayn into the center of the room. People are 'aww'ing as soon as the music starts, and Zayn can’t help but duck his head. _Dancing_. It’s such a ridiculous thing to worry so much about, he thinks. The thought still doesn’t chase away the tightness in his stomach, though.

Zayn takes a deep breath. “I lied to you,” he whispers once they’re in the middle of the floor. They haven’t actually started moving yet, just standing pressed together at their chests as the song continues. Zayn tucks his nose down to press against Niall’s collarbone. “I’m a big liar.”

Niall’s throat vibrates against Zayn’s nose when he laughs, “Are you, now?” Niall’s hands have made their way to his waist, thumbs pressing lightly under his jacket. It’s equally distracting as it is grounding.

He doesn’t say anything for a second, glancing around at all the people staring at them, _waiting_ for them, and he lets out a shaky breath of air before he asks, “Remember when you offered to sign us up for dance classes a few months ago? You know, as a joke?”

Niall nods, chin rubbing Zayn’s temple. “You said you already knew how to dance.”

“Yea,” Zayn says lamely, closing his eyes as Niall takes Zayn’s hands in his, tugs them until Zayn’s arms are up around his neck.

Niall hums and Zayn can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “So. That’s what had you in such a grumpy mood, then.”

“I wasn’t grumpy,” Zayn huffs immediately, and it’s such a blatant lie. He opens his eyes again to give Niall a mock-offended look. He really had been, though. He was an awful fiancé, moping and grumbling around their flat for weeks and probably giving Niall the wrong idea, now that he thinks about it.

“Ah, the first confession of our union. Off to a quick start, we are. We’ll be full-on yelling over whose toothbrush is whose by next week if we keep going at this rate, babe.”

Zayn sends what he hopes is a hard look to Niall. “We will not be mixing up toothbrushes. I won't let it happen. It’s disgusting.”

“I know, I’m just saying, though. A right _plummet,_ this will be.” He talks with a bit of a laugh, joking, and Niall moves smoothly, swaying around with Zayn pressed to his chest. Zayn feels like a robot that’s overdue for an oiling in comparison.

Zayn laughs though, because he might look stupid as fuck shuffling back and forth staring down at their feet – because like hell he’s risking stepping on Niall’s toes – but he’s with _Niall_ , and Niall doesn’t care. As long as Niall’s still got a smile on his face, is tugging Zayn closer with hands on his hips, Zayn will be content, he figures. It’s been like this for as long as he can remember, and that thought sends a spark of warmth through Zayn’s cheeks.

“How about a spin?” Niall asks, tapping Zayn’s hipbones with his thumbs again.

“I’ll probably fall.”

“What about a dip, then? I’ll dip you,” Niall suggests brightly, and Zayn feels Niall’s hands skimming around his back before he registers Niall’s words.

“We didn’t cover that in the crash course,” Zayn says quickly, clamping his hands together behind Niall’s neck. When Niall looks at him in question, eyebrow raised and everything, quiet words spill out of his mouth without Zayn even thinking about it. “Harry dragged me to see an old dancer friend of his yesterday. We spent ages just trying to get me to _not_ kick him in the shins at regular intervals. Like, it was that bad. If I dip, it’ll throw off my balance even worse than it already is, and I’ll _fall_ -”

“I won’t drop you.

Zayn flushes, again. “I’m not worrying about you dropping me; I’m worrying about kicking you when I start to go down.”

They continue to turn as Niall ponders that, Zayn’s eyes still trained on their feet. He’s kicked Niall in the shin at least once and stepped on his toes twice, but he’s trying not to keep count. It only increases his anxiety levels, and they don’t need any extra help from him to increase, so.

“Hm. You’re worried, are you now?” Niall says, and he has a glint in his eyes when he looks at Zayn next. It’s familiar and-

“Niall, no,” Zayn warns, and he tries to sound stern but he can already feel the laugh bubbling up his chest. He feels too light, like he’ll float up and away if Niall lets him go.

“Zayn, yes.” Niall grins, and in the next second he’s twisting quickly to the side and down in a dip. It leaves Zayn clenching his fingers together even tighter behind Niall’s neck, and he yelps, but when his leg kicks up a bit it doesn’t find purchase on any body parts, _thank God_. The anxiety in Zayn’s chest bursts out in the form of a laugh.

Niall pulls him up quickly into his arms, and to Zayn’s surprise reaches behind his neck to take Zayn’s hand. Zayn’s view lurches dramatically around and it takes him a moment to realize that Niall is spinning him around. He starts tipping immediately after he comes to face Niall again, wrapping his arms around Niall’s shoulders and trying to look as if he knows in the slightest what he’s doing and _wasn’t_ just about to face plant into the floor.

“We agreed on no spinning,” Zayn complains, tugging him closer so Niall can wrap his arms around his back again.

“ _We_ didn’t agree on anything,” Niall says with a hint of a laugh. “ _I_ made an executive decision. I veto you.”

Zayn huffs in faux exasperation in response. “I thought marriage was supposed to be a partnership. No more vetoes allowed, and that’s _my_ executive decision.”

Niall cackles loudly as the last chords of the song play out. “Okay. No more of that, I promise,” he says. “I have to hand you over to your mum, now, since she appears to be trying to burn holes into my skull with just her eyes, but I want you to know that this was perfect. You know, to me it was, at least.”

Zayn can’t help the way his fingers tighten in Niall’s hair, causing the blonde to let out a barely-audible grunt. “Did Harry-?”

“Yeah, Harry,” Niall replies. “He was pretty pissed but he still didn’t share much, if it makes you feel better. He just mentioned that you may have been worrying a bit. No big deal.” Niall’s shoulder knocks lightly against Zayn’s chin as he shrugs. “I begged him to tell me, really, why you’ve been so tense lately. I had a feeling he’d know.”

“Oh,” Zayn replies softly. Can Niall feel the burn of Zayn’s cheeks on his neck?

“I was worried too, you know,” Niall continues. “I was worrying about fucking up. Think that that’s normal in these kinds of situations. But we didn’t. We’re fine, Zayn. We’re perfect.”

All the anxiety knotting in Zayn’s stomach was expelled at the same time as the breath was knocked right out of him at Niall’s words. _Of course_ they’re fine. They’ve been through worse than bruised legs and fumbling hands in the public eye, and Zayn feels ridiculous for worrying, even a little bit.

The smile that he hasn’t been able to – or even _willing_ to, for that matter – wipe off of his face for the duration of the dance widens to a degree that makes Zayn’s cheeks hurt in the best way. Just before their mothers get impatient enough to forcibly separate them, Zayn stretches up to press their lips together. It’s forceful with how much meaning and _thanks_ he’s trying to put into it, but soft with happiness and emotion still. The Catholic wedding isn’t even over yet, and already Zayn can’t wait to marry Niall all over again.

“Yeah,” Zayn affirms with a nod of his head as they pull apart. “Yeah, we’re perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please be kind. (Thank you for reading!)


End file.
